


It's a Bird! It's a Plane!

by Zoya1416



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Superman (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who knew that the green cabbages of the Sto-Lat plains were rich in Kryptonite?  To a certain superhero, this flyover country proves dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Bird! It's a Plane!

**Author's Note:**

> Neither of these two worlds are mine. All is borrowed.

Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird. It's a plane. It's!-----splat.

A well-muscled figure in blue tights,a Spandex blue shirt welded to his abs,wearing a red cape, cursed as he picked himself up from the soggy Sto Plains cabbage field. Where was the phone booth? Where was the metropolis? 

There was a scream behind him. He turned around and was confronted by a man in uncouth clothes holding a pitchfork, and a woman wearing a rough blouse and long skirt, who'd apparently fainted.

“G'n wah! W'be? Whn'cls? ”

Superman tapped the universal translator he'd installed behind his right ear. It had saved so much trouble in understanding the Russian mafia and the South American drug cartels. The words still made no sense: “Get on with you! Who are you? Why haven't you got any clothes on?”

“Um—I'm Superman. I was chasing these crooks outside the metropolis, and one pointed something weird at me, and I ended up here. Where is here, by the way?”

The man paid no attention, throwing him a burlap sack.

“Get somthin' on! You look like somthin' from th' Blue Cat Club! Y've scared m'wife.”

The woman had opened her eyes and was actually looking at him quite favorably, he thought, but when her husband turned, she fell back again with a little moan.

He decided to fly away in search of answers and thrust his right arm in the air. Nothing happened. Astonished, he tried again, bearing down a little.

“Y'sound blocked up, youn' man—you need more cabbage!” And the man threw a leafy ball at him. It hit him and HURT. He fell back, noticing for the first time it wasn't just green, it was glowing green. As well, he noticed with fear, was the entire countryside.

“WHERE IS THE METROPOLIS, FARMER!” 

“Ahh, g't to A'hk-Mr pk,” the farmer said and spat at his feet. Id' be tha' way. Follow th' smoke.”

As he turned to run, the farmer threw the sack at him, and yelled again, “Fellow, wrap this aroun' your legs and sich, or you'll get arrest'd,”

He acceded to the request, wrapping the sack as a kilt, and ran away as fast as he could. Two hours later he was lying down in rough grass a short ways from a walled city, next to a bridge, plotting how to enter it. He didn't noticed the squad of men (well, humanoids) cautiously peering at him over the bridge.

“Bugsy was right. What an odd stranger,” said Angua. “I smell other than human, but I don't know what."

Superman made up his mind. He ran a short distance widdershins of the Water Bridge, and tapped the wall carefully. It gave in! Elated, he whacked it a little harder, and a whole chunk came out. Just as he was preparing to break down that section of the wall, he heard a soft “Ahem.”

A beautiful girl in some kind of metal plate armor and helmet, was staring at him coldly.

“Were you planning on paying for destroying our wall?”

Some undertone made him say, “Ah, no ma'am...yes ma'am.”

“Captain Angua, Ankh-Morpork City Watch.”

“Ah, no, Captain Angua, I only wanted to enter without being noticed.”

He heard the guffaws of two men beside her he hadn't noticed before, and noticed a rock-faced—what?

“Sergeant Colon, Corporal Nobbs, Sergeant Detritus. And what is your name?”

Superman didn't hesitate an instant. “Clark Kent, Captain.”

She was puzzled. “You're a clerk? For whom do you work? In that kind of—costume?”

“No, I work for a newspaper, and I, um, usually wear different clothes.”

“Good thing Bugsy could help us with your description. Here's an old shirt and leggings of Carrot's, they should fit you.”

He pulled on a very long shirt with no buttons, and a knee length pair of pants, and was trying to stuff the shirt into the pants when Angua spoke again.

“Gods, you really aren't from around here, Clerk. Haven't you ever seen a tunic before?”

She came over to him and pulled the—tunic— out of his pants, to more guffaws from her fellows. 

Along the way they passed a robbery in progress. The Captain grabbed his arm. “Licensed thief!” She hissed. “Leave him alone.”

Superman wasn't just down from some mountain—he'd worked all over the globe, and knew there were many strange customs. Ignoring robberies—this city must be worse than Moscow, with the brutal Mafias in control. 

The sights dismayed him. There were so many—creatures! He'd never seen anything like it except in the comics. Tall thick rocky ones, short bearded types with helmets and axes, tiny things he couldn't place at all. The smell from the river grew stronger, and strangely, as it did, he felt his powers coming back. He stretched a little, straining the tunic.

Finally his party wound up at the City Watch. Captain Angua saluted and said, “Here, sir. Says he's a clerk.” She motioned him to sit.

A grim looking man with a cigar stared at him. 

“So if you clerk for someone, why are you wearing those silly clothes? It's only the Blue—  
“Cat Club, sir. I heard—speculation about that, and no, I'm a red-blooded American man. I don't stand for such things.”

He WAS a good reporter, and had twigged to what was making everyone laugh.

“Great. Glad that's settled. So who are you?”

He'd been thinking it over during his walk. This might be some part of Eastern Europe, the Balkans; it had that poverty-stricken and ancient air about it. He'd reported from there, and helped to break up some criminal gangs. 

“This is a disguise. I heard that there was a circus in—Angy Mooreporky—this city—which, which might be a screen for criminal activities. Apparently I was misinformed. So I'll be on my way.”

The older man caught his hesitation.  
“It's Ankh-Morpork. And everyone around the Disc knows who we are. What year is this?”

He might as well give in.“Nineteen-sixty.”

“Nice try. Which century are we in?”

“The twentieth?”

“Ever hear of the Duke of Ankh-Morpork?” This last was from the girl—woman—something else—who'd brought him in. 

Everyone laughed, the man in the chair snorted, and Superman realized he was being baited. Part of his image came from making lightning fast deductions. 

“I expect that would be you, sir. Your Grace?”  
“Sir Samuel will do.”

The duke tossed a length of chain at him. “Can you break this?”

Amazingly, he could. He smiled. 

Everyone else frowned. 

“Detritus, hit him. Just a little.” The rock man aimed a blow at him, but now he could move super-swiftly, pinning the troll before he could move.

Sir Samuel scooped up a knife from the table. “Here. Does this hurt if you stick it in?  
It didn't. He had his powers, he could fly away—back to the awful fields of green kryptonite.

He decided to be honest. He couldn't go anywhere until he could neutralize this threat. Since when did kryptonite GROW?

“Sir, I am here from America. The United States.” Blank glances. He tried in German, colloquial Russian, Croatian, even in Arabic. The last drew glances from the officers, who asked him to repeat.

“do underading mlelelvekkandink me, achmed?” 

“It may be some form of Klatchian. But I don't want to involve their embassy,” said Sir Samuel. 

A small man in a neat black suit pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

“Your grace, you and this man have an appointment with Lord Vetinari,”  
he began. “His carriage is waiting.”

“Yes, yes, I know, ten minutes ago. Come along, Clerk.”

Superman and the strange duke waited in the anteroom only five minutes.

Lord Vetinari steepled his thin hands on his desk, eying Superman. During the trip to the Palace, he had removed his tunic, leaving him with short leggings over his uniform. He retained his red boots and cape. 

“I understand you claim to be from the America United States, and have no knowledge of this Disc. Is that right?”

The dark intense eyes, the thin tracing of beard, and the dangerous demeanor reminded Superman from something out of the history he'd had to learn. Italian? Medici? Something predatory in his stare.

He answered carefully, “It's the United States, Lord. We sometimes call it America, but not both at the same time.”

“Like not calling a man a Duke, a knight, and a watch commander at the same time?”

“Yes, sir.” He didn't look at the glowering duke-knight-commander beside him.

“So explain to me why a decent, gods-fearing, humble farmer and his wife experienced a clerk falling from the sky?”

“I'm not a clerk. It's my name, Clark. I'm a reporter. I work at a newspaper—somewhere else, very far away, it seems.”

“The clothes?”

“Okay, I dress like this when I fight crime--” they didn't believe him.

“Here.” He swiftly removed the boot-knife he'd noticed on Sir Samuel, before the man could stop him, and twisted it into a circle. Then he pulled it straight again.  
“And I—am”--he recited: 

 

“I'm faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. I'm Superman- strange visitor from another planet who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. I can change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel with my bare hands, and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fights the never ending battle for Truth, Justice and the American Way!”

Sir Samuel was having a severe coughing fit when he finished this, and even the Patrician's hand was covering a tiny snort.

Ignoring them, because this was his first chance to explain things, he said, “I was chasing a cabal of Arabian jewel thieves. They had been killing and robbing their own countrymen and also two of our diplomats. They were trying to get away to their—pirate ship”—not mentioning an airplane seemed a good move here—“and I caught two of them, and tied them up for the local authorities. The third man had some kind of glittering jewel, like a large opal, maybe, and he—flashed a light through it. The next thing I knew I was lying in a field full of kryp, uh-cabbages!”

“Why didn't you have your “super-powers” when you were at the farmer's? He reported that you seemed to think you could fly, but said ouch! when he hit you in the head with a cabbage.”

He wasn't going to give THAT away.  
“I expect I was still stunned from the fall. It's happened before.” But he'd never, ever, heard about kryptonite which could grow. And certainly nothing about the powers being restored by, apparently, the effluvium of a very foul river.

The patrician spoke to the duke. “Can you use him in the Watch?”

“Not in his usual uniform, but, yes, if he'll take the oath. There's nothing about flying, or super-strong officers, we've got several of both.”

Sir Samuel spoke to him. “We'll speak to the Wizards first thing, man, to see whether they can get you home. Until they do, do you want to work here? For me?”

“Yes, if you can use me.”

**********

The wizards didn't know what to do. Clark could see the frustration their Arch-Chancellor was trying to hide as he spoke to a young wizard.

“Stibbons, you're telling me that you fellas at High Energy Magic don't know what to do? You sent Sir Samuel back in time 30 years!”

“Well, Arch-Chancellor, we didn't mean to do that, we were testing a method to multiply magic using old lightening, and when the flux got hit by that huge stroke, it twisted the space—ti”—  
“Don't say it,” groaned the Arch-Chancellor. “Just work on it, so we can get “Mr. Superman” here home.

“Maybe the Rite of Ashk-?” someone offered. 

“No! The last time we tried it, we'd apparently interrupted him at his bath—don't laugh, young man, it was important to him. He said unless the world was coming to an end, again, not to bother him.”

'What was the Rite of Ashes?” murmured Clark to Ponder Stibbons.  
“Oh, it summons Death, and he has to answer our questions. Time before last we got a girl Death and she was worse than he was!”

He had absolutely no idea what he'd been told.

After he'd been sworn in, by a red-headed man his size, whom he realized quickly was powerful but— Stupid wasn't the quality he was looking for, but—simple. In a strange way, innocent and taking everything literally. The troll Detritus and a smelly little man walked his first beat with him. Clark was beginning to notice that his powers were the strongest when the little man was around him, or when he was closest to the Ankh. He'd groaned to himself. Was he going to have to carry this vagabond or the stench with him everywhere? 

There were screams again, and the two Watchmen started running. A tenement was on fire, but it was so unstable that it was impossible for anyone to get close. Clark ran up the stairs and caught up three children, jumping out the window as the floor collapsed beneath him. He noticed everyone gaping, remembered that he'd been on the third floor, collapsed, and started yelling. “Oooowwww—God---back hurts so bad damnnn auughh” He tried a weak move-----and then screamed... “think I broke my legs---ah”--screamed harder when he was touched, and 'fainted.' He was rushed back to the station on a door, still moaning.

When he was along with the Igor, he grasped the green man's arm.  
“I'm not hurt. Just put some bandages on me for show.”

Igor nodded. “Jutht ath you say, sir. I would have been thurprised to see broken legth in someone when they're perfectly thraight. I could break them for you--” 

“No, you couldn't, but thanks anyway.”

It was odd to fight crime without his blue suit. He missed it terribly. He couldn't show much strength here, because he couldn't simply fly away and then change clothes back in his telephone booth. On the plus side, he didn't have to pretend he needed glasses.

He missed Lois. She was his bond, his weakness, his everything. 

One day a man who smelled like lye soap with a trace of the Ankh came to the Watch House.

“I'm Harry King, King of the Golden River. I heard that you could change the course of mighty rivers.”  
“Yes?”

“I need some new sluices built downriver. The old ones are caking over, and we need to divert things while we clean out. The dwarfs say they're too busy with the Undertaking, but really they can't work in the smell. It will be good pay. Can you stand a bit of it?”

King had grossly understated things to him. This wasn't just stench, it was stench which had built an entire country and was going to demand diplomatic rights any day. It was foul work, but he was glad to see the new sluices function well.

“Thanks. Next time you come by you can help me clean up the Ankh! It's my daughter's dream.”

Clark smiled weakly. The Ankh was his life support.

When he left King's for the last time, he tested his flying. He could go up as far as he wanted, but not out to the plains. He followed the Ankh down to the sea. It appeared that he might be able to fly over the ocean, but when the Ankh had finally merged? He could fall. He'd never been so vulnerable in his life.

He was miserable when he returned to the Watch House, but he saw a new girl—woman--officer there.

Angua nodded at him. “Come here, Clark. This little miss returned from a vacation in her home country, and I think she'd like to meet you.”

The two women mock-glared at each other as he came over.

“Meet Sergeant Salacia von Humpeding. Sally, this is Clark.”

The woman was shorter and slimmer than Angua, and had a black widow's peak. He didn't find out why Angua wanted her to meet him for two days. Then he didn't believe it.

“Don't vorry, Clark. I am a Black Ribboner. I do not suck human blood anymore.  
Every one of us who is a Black Ribboner has a, ah, an obsession which takes over the need for human blood. Otto—have you met Otto? He turns to dust with every iconograph he takes. But he loves the risk, claims to be fascinated by light. I know a woman who obsesses about coffee, very tiresome, really.”

“So, what's your—hobby?”

She hesitated. “No one but Angua knows. I raise sheep. Her brother helps guard them. I am trying to breed sheep whose blood will taste almost like human's but not enough to trigger the craving. I've been told it will be like non-alcoholic beer, but what I hope, vat I really hope, it that it will be available for emergencies.

“It's dangerous when a person's hobby falls through. The woman with the coffee had it all stolen at one time, and couldn't get more, because she is a soldier and they vere in the field. She came wery close to going insane. If she had she would have killed her whole troop. She could have carried a canteen as an emergency. Otto, as good as he is, nearly had a relapse once. It's very controversial, because some Black Ribboners think it will cause relapses, and would be fatal.”

She smiled cheerily at him. “But we vampires love controversy, and political strategizing, and have long lives to do this. That's not why Angua introduced us. Would you like to keep up your physical training, or do you not have to do that?”

He wasn't sure. He'd never had to exercise before, but the strange forces on the Disc were frightening him. He looked into her eyes, which were deep black, not a color he'd ever been attracted to. She was the very opposite of the cheerful cuddly Lois Lane he still missed. Why did Angua want them to meet?

He found out when she threw him the first time. 

“How did you do that!”

“Oh, I applied this pressure to your elbow, and lifted you over my hip like--” 

“I'm not talking about that! No one has ever been strong enough to throw me!”

“I guess there are no vampires on your world.” She shrugged.

Wrestling with her, testing her strength, was a pleasure he'd never known. Clark had loved Lois, who had no time for him and loved Superman. He'd carried her in his arms a time or two, rescuing her. But though he loved Lois, he'd never even kissed her, worrying that he might be too strong.

Sally still threw him sometimes, especially if he lost concentration for a second as she deliberately brushed her breasts across him. But he was much heavier, and could usually pin her if she lost her balance for an instant. By the second week he knew what was happening.

He didn't know what to do, as far as the practicalities went. He had been staying at the Watch House, not knowing the city well. She boarded elsewhere, and briefly told him it was not acceptable there. She finally explained one option.

“A brothel? You want us to go to—the red light district? Sounds very unpleasant.”

“It's Rosie's. It's not a brothel, it's a house of negotiable affection. It's one place where we can wrestle, yell, whatever—no one pays any attention at Rosie's, if they're paid well enough. And I have a large purse.”

He put her off for a couple of days. The whole thing seemed extremely strange. How was he going to explain this to himself if he ever got home?

But he might not. He still needed to figure out those kryptonite cabbages. The wizards were thinking about the Rite of Ashk-Ente, because they had nothing else to offer.

The simplest decision was the best. She wasn't asking for anything permanent, and neither was he.

They broke two beds at Rosie's, wrapped up in sheets and giggling as Rosie's minions brought in the third one.


End file.
